You know that moment when someone says, "The Middle East" and you think of a person aimlessly wandering the desert on camel? Well, that happened. What they don't tell you is that camels hurt like hell. Boys, I'm truly sorry...jock cups probably should've been on our packing list. 130 of us rode on camels through Wadi Rum, led by local bedouins who didn't understand our Arabic but knew how to say "picture" and "you're from America?"...think they get tourists often? After trying to get comfortable for a half hour I accepted the fact that camels are not comfortable creatures, and enjoyed the absolutely breathtaking view of the Wadi. I also learned some bedouin language, which consists of a bunch of hissing and strange clicking noises that I'm convinced only they are capable of making, and only camels are capable of understanding.

That night we stayed in a bedouin camp, which was more like a motel in the dirt, than a camp. It was fully equipped with cots, showers, toilets, AND TOILET PAPER! A luxury in Jordan. There was a huge buffet and barbecue, followed by dancing and music all night. Our tour guides [a group of 10 attractive, young Jordanians] taught us the Dabke, a traditional Lebanese circle dance, and thoroughly enjoyed watching us fail. Once the lights went out at the camp, they brought out the arghellah [which btw, 90% of Jordanians smoke, and no, it's not weed...google it] while we enjoyed the stars. The next day we left early for Aqaba, which is basically Jordans version of Hawaii. We were taken out on a super nice boat and spent the day snorkeling, swimming, and tanning [or in my case, remaining white], with a staff that waited on you like you were Queen Rania. Sounds rough, right?

Back on the bus, we made our way to Petra. That night we stayed in a hotel [again, toilet paper included], with European-style showers that turned our bathroom into a swimming pool and ate the traditional Jordanian dish called Mensaf. Mensaf is by far the funnest food to eat. It's like Kindergarden art class but you're able to eat your creation. The server showed us how to properly roll the chicken, rice, and sauce into a ball like a true Jordanian. I think we got a little to into this experience, because there were a group of Jordanians gathering around our table both praising, and taking pictures of our "art" [aka Mensaf snowman].

Feeling like Queen Rania was short-lived. The next morning, we walked [keyword: walked] to Petra. In 110 degree heat, the best way I can explain Petra is donkeys, heat, rocks, and more rocks. At this point, we were all so exhausted that I would've rather ate the rocks than walk on them. I'm planning on coming back to Petra when its cooler, and I can actually appreciate what I'm looking at. 7 hours later, a group of 4 of us decided we'd rather not have heat stroke, and walked back to the hotel where we crashed on the lobby couches and talked to the guy working at the front desk, who turns out to be a really interesting guy. We got his email and are having coffee with him when he's in Amman next week [a totally normal, non-creepy, encounter to have with a Jordanian].

For those of you wondering how to leave a comment [please do, it makes me happy knowing that people actually read my clusterfuck of a blog], all you have to do is the following:

Well today I had my first, "holy shit I'm in the Middle East" moment. As you [hopefully] know, there have been demonstrations, attacks, and protests across the Middle East in response to the American anti-Islam film, "Innocence of Muslims". My day consisted of a taxi ride where the driver asked where I was from and proceeded by flat out saying "I hate Americans," [Arabs tend to be rather blunt], and later a ride around Amman with my host brother and sister where we were followed by 15 Jordanian army trucks with sirens. Of course the fact that they had sirens on is insignificant because not a single car pulled over, thought about pulling over, or attempted to pull over. My law-abiding American self was having trouble fathoming this situation. Just a demonstration, nbd.

Now to rewind and recap the past week:Started classes at the University: learned how to order coffee without sounding like a complete tourist, and to avoid using the bathroom on campus at all costs [a whole in the ground is an understatement]. Went to my first Arab wedding! [aka a fashion show where moms scope out wives for their sons]

Don't let the abbiyas fool you, there are some New-York fashion-week-status dresses under there.

Learned how to ride a taxi in Jordan: Sit in the back and stare out the window in order to avoid unwanted flirtation or possible marriage proposals. Also learned that it is completely normal for your driver to pull over en route, yell something at a guy standing on the curb, and leave with cigarettes and coffee in hand.

Got to experience Jordan beating Australia in futbol! Which basically entails 30 people gathering around one tv while eating copious amounts of food and simultaneously listening to the Muslim call to prayer. After the game's over, everyone gets in their cars, grabs their Jordanian flags, and drives through the medina, blasting music and honking horns.

Well, I officially hit the host family jackpot. The best way I can think to explain the extent of their amazing-ness [yes, that is now a word], is by picturing My Big Fat Greek Wedding... Arab version. I have a 13-year old host sister I share a room with who thinks I look like Taylor Swift [don't ask] so she refers to me as "too too", 4 brothers in their twenties [who happen to be extremely good-looking tall, dark, funny Arab men], and a host mom who is the sweetest, funniest woman and will shove anything down your throat that can be digested [mostly consisting of Syrian food, zatar, and pineapple juice with the highest sugar content possible...so I'm not complaining]. The most useful word I've learned to say so far is "ana shaaebana" meaning I'm full, which Arabs interpret as, "ok ok I will get you tea and ice cream." As far as the house goes, you could literally perform surgery on the floor it's so clean [mom and dad, you have competition]. Having a clean house is a sign of hospitality since Arabs have unexpected guests nonstop. And by unexpected guests, I mean within 20 minutes of sitting on the couch, the cousins, second cousins, third cousins, and neighbors brothers uncle will have all come over, and if the house wasn't clean, all of Amman would hear about it within about 15 minute upon leaving. All of my host brothers and sisters speak English which is nice since my Arabic is lacking in the conversation department, but we try and use mostly Arabic. My host mom [who will here on out be referred to as Mama], knows three words of English: sit, eat, and "you like?" so we communicate using a mix of Arabic and charades. The brothers and cousins are all extremely outgoing and hilarious and have shown me a side of Amman that I definitely wouldn't see other otherways. Last night we went to a hookah bar [correctly known as Marghelleh or "hubbly bubbly"] that looked like it would be a high-end restaurant in New York or San Francisco, overlooking East Amman. They ordered me a Mexican beer, which is Red Bull, limon, some other unknown substance, and absolutely no beer involved whatsoever. I'm going to cut this short because Mama is yelling something at me in Arabic. Maasalama!

Well, my airport journey was some-what entertaining. My morning started off puking at home [don't take Zicam on an empty stomach, ever] and barely making it through security without hurling in a trash can. It would just be uncharacteristic of me if my journey started off on a normal note. Once on the airplane, I attempted to lift up my 50 pound carry on [no literally, it was 50 pounds], into the overhead compartment. Imagine a 4'11 girl trying to lift a huge ass bag with a line of antsy New Yorkers behind her. That happened. Luckily, a flight attendant and huge guy (pretty sure he was a MMA fighter, if not, sir, you should definitely consider a career change), hoisted my bag into the overhead. I heard the guy sitting next to me speaking Arabic, so I started up a conversation with the fellow, turns out he's the Air Force General for Saudi Arabia...no big deal. We had a good, long 5 hour conversation covering pretty much every topic from how his wife and daughters send him a Victoria's Secret shopping list when he comes to America, to how I should watch out for Moroccan men, because they like to party [Note to self: go to Morrocco]. I attempted to speak Arabic with him, but it pretty much failed until i'd write it down and he'd say something like, "Ahhh, you Americans and your pronunciation!" At one point he told me that the Americans stole the number "0" from the Arabs [which to all my non-Arabic learners reading this, the only number that looks somewhat relating to the number 0 is about a third of the size of the English 0 and looks like a donut hole]. I have no clue who first came up with 0, but I nodded my head and said "waaallaah?!" (meaning something along the lines of: really?! holy shit!) After the 6 hour flight to JFK, we said goodbye and he offered to take me to my terminal (the mans landed here over 500 times), but I politely refused. Dumb decision. I wandered JFK for about a half hour before getting into the Admirals club to ask where the hell I am. I knew I was in the right place when there were a group of men reciting the Muslim call to prayer at the gate. The flight from JFK to Amman was surprisingly somewhat uneventful. Consensus was that the Jordanian flight attendants were the most beautiful group of women we've ever seen. I popped a NyQuil and passed out for the majority of the flight, best decision I made all day. Arriving in Amman was easier than I expected, but I immediately realized how shitty my Arabic is. Customs were a piece of cake, he asked me something I didn't understand in Arabic, I nodded my head, and he let me through. Don't know what happened there, but hey...it worked. After getting my bags, I walked out of the baggage claim area where about 200 people were waiting for their guests, found my program director, and chilled in the airport for 45 minutes waiting for other people to get their bags. We all then piled into 10 different vans, and it became apparent to me how absolutely insane Jordanians drive. Picture the worst driver you know, take away the fact that lanes and speed limits exist, and walla! There you have a Jordanian driver. They take #YOLO to a whole new level. To my surprise, we arrived at the hotel in one piece [which, may I add, looks like a metropolitan, 4 star hotel you'd find in New York or San Francisco]. We went through routine, orientation type things, none of which are mildly entertaining, or blog-worthy.